The Lake

Later, in one of his three rented Bay Area apartments, Mace surveyed his work. Dipping his head from side to side, appraising his latest killing, assessing the need for a little more embellishment.

He grinned, his white teeth glistening in the soft light from the bedside lamp.

One less evil bitch, he told himself.

In the small cramped space the realty office had euphemistically described as a living room, the blinds were drawn. And not only against the glare of the midday sun.

Mace eased the knife from the slit in her throat. It came away with a sharp, sucking sound. Fresh blood welled, pumping over her shoulders. Matting the long strands of hair. Making a pool on the pillow behind her.

She groaned, moved slightly. Her legs made small jerky tremors. Bubbles gurgled gently from the mouth-shaped slit. Her fingers twitched, then lay still.

Her lids fluttered gently, then opened.

The eyes staring up at him were blank, glazed.

Dead already.

Mace hefted the knife like a dagger. He raised his arm, visualizing the long clean slit he’d carve from throat to pubic bone.

His hand came down, slicing the firm white flesh, the blade juddering slightly as it hit the breastbone. Like a jacket unzipped, the torso sagged open.

More blood seeped from the “mouth,” easing onto the pillow…till the dark hair floated in a small black lake.

Mace paused, then hacked some more. Edging up the skin with the tip of his blade, flapping it open, peering at the hot steamy coils within.

He could smell her evil.

Warm, mulchy, sour.

Sniffing, breathing it in, he grinned, then flicked the skin back again. Kneading it into place with quick, practiced fingers. Patting the breasts, hanging loose, lolling sideways, away from the incision.

He fondled them, squeezing the soft dark nipples.

Frowning.

They’d been so taut, so ready, a half hour ago. When she’d squirmed beneath him, strong and agile. Yeah. She’d given him a hard time, all right, but he’d made it, ramming her, jerking his come into her moist warmth.

How she’d bucked, squirmed, screamed out.

Shoulda given her a double shot…

Not “liquid ecstasy,” though.

This time he’d used his trusty hunting knife. “Yessir,” he muttered, panting a little, remembering. “It’d been a real pleasure, slicing that smooth white throat.”

He’d shut her mouth, once and for all.

And he’d made another. One guaranteed to stay open, no matter what…

He liked that.

A harsh laugh blurted from his lips.

Never did catch her name…

Probably something like Debbie, Jennifer, or Susan.

Typical middle-class product.

He took a wild guess…

Wealthy daddy. House in Pacific Heights. Tennis and the beach all summer. UCSC in the fall. All set for a big exciting career in Daddy’s L.A. office.

Maybe…

Not anymore, though.

With that black hair…she’d’ve always been evil…Doin’ bad things the resta her life…

He’d done the world a favor.

He’d gotten rid of one more Tania.

Hate twisted his face. His teeth clenched.

He turned away. Busying himself with his holdall, throwing in the almost empty vial of GHB, the syringe…

He brought out the Nikon and began taking shots. Full-on. Sideways. Then zooming in for a close-up of that gaping “mouth.” It’d be a real change from the others in his scrapbook, he told himself.

A medical shot. Like a do-it-yourself tracheotomy guide on the Internet.

He gave a short laugh.

His bloodied fingers stained the camera.

Streaks of blood smeared his face.

Tugging the knife from the body, he threw it into the holdall. The Nikon followed, clattering against his spare service revolver, more vials of GHB, the pack of unused syringes.

Then, picking up opposite corners of the bedsheet, he pulled them across the body, knotted the ends, top left to bottom right. Top right to bottom left. A slim hand, slack and bloodied, slid out through a gap. He shoved it back inside the bedsheet.

Hoisting the bundle off the bed, he paused for a moment. Figuring out the means of disposal. He could stash it in the wardrobe. Leave it in an underpass. Or wait till dark, put it in the car trunk, and toss it over a cliff someplace.

Slumped in an armchair, a can of beer in one hand, the TV turned low, he waited till dark.

SIXTY-FIVE

Sheena stared at her reflection in the dresser mirror.

She looked pale, shaken; felt chilled to the bone.

She’d been stroking her hair with an ebony-backed brush. Now it lay where it had fallen, in her lap.

Slowly, she set the brush on the crystal tray in front of her. The tray held combs, bobby pins, and a couple of hair bands.

Her eyes went to a small wooden doll, hand-carved, dark with years of handling. The doll stood propped against the mirror.